


the grass is red from all the cherry trees

by Chickenoodles



Category: Pyramid Scheme (Discord server)
Genre: Multi, ehhh this is abandoned but thank you for reading the first chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 14:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14166462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chickenoodles/pseuds/Chickenoodles
Summary: You make your way down the cracked sidewalk. Destination? The newly constructed dorm building. Clutching a stack of boxes full of your belongings, you shiver. The metallic structure is tall and modern, easily towering over the rest of the “Pyramid Scheme University” campus. Even from far away, you can see it looming above the other buildings like a big, fat, ugly, giant.





	the grass is red from all the cherry trees

     You make your way down the cracked sidewalk. Destination? The newly constructed dorm building. Clutching a stack of boxes full of your belongings, you shiver. The metallic structure is tall and modern, easily towering over the rest of the “Pyramid Scheme University” campus. Even from far away, you can see it looming above the other buildings like a big, fat, ugly, giant.

 

The corners of your mouth curl into a solemn smile. Everything is just like how you remembered it.

 

     Maybe you remember too well. The 80's era rock music blasting at all times of the day, clothing and trash alike strewn all around the floor... and the sadly familiar odor of marijuana smoke constantly asphyxiating you. You huff. Shit roommates surely make for shit years.

 

 _Spencer,_  you recall, was his name.  _What an ass._

 

     The chilly September breeze raises goosebumps on your arms as your stomach fills with regret. Your favorite jacket is still at home. Most of your favorite stuff is at home. The t-shirt hugging your chest -- oh, your cold, cold chest -- proved to not be enough.

 

     To say you were unprepared would be an understatement. All you had done was wish your mom a goodbye, then off you went to drive to the campus. With boxes that were somehow all packed within 45 minutes the previous night. Even the best of us fall victim to procrastination sometimes.

 

     A nearby sign catches your eye. “Street Ln.” An odd and strangely familiar name for a street… oh. You pause your March to Hell to groan to the sky. Of course, you had to be walking to your old dorms. Must be a habit.

 

Slamming your boxes to the ground…

 

 _Take a deep breath, y/n_ , you tell yourself.

 

     Gently placing your boxes on the ground (no matter what urge you had to slam your boxes to the ground), your mind goes to the letter that informed you of your last minute “change in housing”. You rip the manila-colored letter out of your pants pocket sent to you by the college board conveniently right before you left.

 

“Hello y/n!” you mockingly scream out loud.

  


“As congrats for maintaining such a great grade point average, we would love to place you on a floor with fellow overachievers!”

 

You roll your eyes. Overachievers… you mean literally anyone with a 4.0 GPA.

 

     “Everyone on the floor shares at least one class with you, so you will all be very familiar by the end of this year. Don’t worry, this dorm arrangement is completely free! If you maintain the same high level of academic achievement in this year, you will be guaranteed the same opportunity next year. The living quarters are in the newly built dorm building at 6024 Treeknox Street. We hope you enjoy this arrangement!” Haha! Fuck you, too!

 

     You proceed to pick up the boxes you smashed in your thoughts, and resumed your March to Hell… Well, March to Hell 2.0 (last minute patch) with the monotonous voice of Google Maps guiding the way.

 

“Take a left.”

 

_Walk 100 miles and jump off a cliff._

 

“Continue down Vine Street for 1 km.”

 

_Stop, drop and roll._

 

“Arrive at your destination on your right.”

 

_Eat your dad and regurgitate him after digestion to the devil like owl pellets for the next 10 km._

  


     You’re finally there. Hell. The building truly now looms over you. It contrasts much of the actual campus with its matte gray frame and minimalistic window panes. You don’t know how much you really like the style.

 

 _Li Building_ , the plaque reads, in loving memory of our former headmaster.

 

Must’ve been a real shit headmaster for the board to construct such an aesthetically “unpleasing” building like this.

 

The boxes begin to feel heavy in your arms. You put them down, exhaling a sigh of relief.  You moan, shaking your arms around. This is nice. The calm wind brushing your back, the-

 

     “Excuse me, w-what are you doing?” A quiet voice behind you questions. You swiftly turn, then lock in place. A girl stares at you, eyebrows raised. There are bags under her brown eyes, likely a result of many sleepless nights over the summer. You could relate. She looks around your age, 19, but slightly shorter than you are. Dressed in a loose sweater and white pants, she seems much more prepared for the weather than you were.

 

“Hello?” Her voice snaps you back to reality. Shit. Uncomfortable silence. Your nemesis. Her eyes are wide and so are yours, you swear.

 

     “Uh! You see,” you frantically gesture to the boxes now scattered across the concrete, trying to explain in the best way possible. “B-boxes! I’ve got boxes! Unlike you. Smart. Suitcase. My arms are sore! Heh, shake it off. Nice weather?” Her face twists into confusion then back to the same concerned look she gave you seconds ago.

 

“R-right.” She quickly speeds past you, her suitcase trailing close by, the click-clack of the wheels against the door frame echoing down the hallway almost mocking you.

 

“Wait, who are y…”

 

      Your voice lingers off as you remember the girl is no longer in sight, instead clambering up the stairs. All that remains is you and your boxes. And the goddamn “calm” wind. You shiver once again. You kick the ground in embarrassment and annoyance.

 

You finish stretching your arms (much slower and quieter this time) and sigh, your shoulders collapsing with each breath.

 

Nice job, you sure made a good impression, huh?

 

“Guess I’ll die.”

 

**-~-**

 

 

     You flop down onto the bed, half done unpacking your cursed boxes. You flick through your phone. In the corner of your vision, your alarm clock flashes a bright “1:34 PM”. 1:34 PM? Is that lunchtime? Sure, people eat lunch at 1:34 pm, you suppose. Do you eat lunch at 1:34 pm? Is that a normal thing to do?

 

Some points in times are just more relevant than other times. Not all times are created equal.

Irrelevant.

 

     You set your phone down on the counter. Sitting up, you survey the room. Your blue and gold bed supports your weight as you lean back and forth. The bed squawks under your weight. The blankets feel soft and nice. Running your hands through it brings you back to the dimly lit hut you called your room for the past 10 years of your life. You chide yourself. You don’t have the time to be nostalgic, not so soon.

 

     Next to you sits a wooden counter, dark and neatly polished. It came with the room, of course; you shudder at the thought of carrying it around with your boxes. You lean forward. To the right of you is your door and to the left is a mini-kitchen? A fridge, a microwave, and a sink. Nice.

 

     It seems your new pad isn’t so bad. Suddenly, your stomach grumbles.  _Did I eat enough this morning?_ You rack through your brain remembering the local eateries you had passed on your walk. A flashing street sign of Chick-fil-A haunts your vision. Sure.

**Author's Note:**

> hey if you read through all of this congrats????????????????????????????????????????????????


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